Chapter 8 - The Ghost at the Table
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The silence in the grand ballroom was absolute and suffocating. It was the kind of silence that happens right before a bomb detonates.
Sixteen hardened criminals, capos, and lieutenants stared at the man they had already written off as dead. They looked at the tailored suit, the broad, powerful shoulders, and the utterly merciless expression on Matteo Rinaldi’s face.
Matteo slowly rolled his chair forward, crossing the threshold into the room.
The soft squeak of his wheels was the only sound in the cavernous space. Every eye tracked his movement as he navigated past the expensive floral arrangements and the stunned faces of his subordinates.
He didn't look at any of them. He kept his dark, predatory eyes locked entirely on the head of the table.
Locked entirely on Lorenzo Viti, who was currently sitting in Matteo’s custom mahogany chair.
Lorenzo’s face was completely drained of color. He looked like a man who had just seen a ghost, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Beside him, Celeste was trembling violently, her hands gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles were white.
Matteo stopped his wheelchair precisely three feet away from Lorenzo.
He stared at his underboss for a long, agonizing moment. He didn't yell. He didn't pull his weapon. He didn't have to. The sheer weight of his presence was crushing the air out of the room.
“Lorenzo,” Matteo said softly, his voice echoing in the dead quiet room. It was smooth, calm, and terrifying.
“Boss… Matteo… we didn't…” Lorenzo stammered, sweat breaking out on his forehead. “We didn't expect you down here.”
“Clearly,” Matteo replied, glancing at the shattered champagne glass at Celeste’s feet.
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Matteo leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the arms of his wheelchair. He looked at the heavy mahogany chair Lorenzo was occupying.
“You’re in my seat, Lorenzo.”
